


Wings

by GayApril16



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angel Castiel (Supernatural), Gen, Wings
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-04-12
Updated: 2020-04-12
Packaged: 2021-03-02 04:42:31
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,454
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23619208
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GayApril16/pseuds/GayApril16
Summary: While working on a perplexing case alone, Cas gets hit with a burst of magic. While there initially seems to be no effects, it isn't long before Cas falls victim to its power—and when Cas wakes up in his motel room, he's grown physical wings.
Kudos: 16





	Wings

**Author's Note:**

> This is meant to take place around the later half of season 10 in regards to Cas' storyline, so before he gets his own grace back but after he takes Adina's. My fanfic doesn't follow the Canon plotline and as such the Mark of Cain won't be largely addressed.
> 
> Please forgive any anatomical mistakes in regards to the descriptions of the wings. I don't know actual anatomy and this is purely from my imagination. 
> 
> :)

Cas dove for cover, rolling behind a desk as the blast of light slammed against the wall where he’d been standing, bursting into silver sparks. He scrambled to his knees as another burst pegged the desk, knocking it a few inches in one direction. Cas froze.

Nothing. No other burst of light came.

Cas carefully maneuvered himself to his feet, still crouching behind the desk. He slipped his angel blade into his hand, listening for whoever—or whatever—was attacking him.

His breathing seemed oddly magnified in the silence, which made a bit of anxiety—one of the more frustrating human emotions he still felt sometimes—pool in his stomach. The fear was pointless, though. Cas knew exactly how loud he was, and he couldn’t be much quieter. Still, the frustrating emotion wouldn’t go away.

Motion. Cas turned towards it, already bringing his blade up as a streak of light shot at him from behind and hit him square in the back.

*****

Around dawn, Castiel slipped back into his motel room, careful to lock the door behind him. He was confused. He’d woken up in the same place he’d been knocked unconscious—behind a desk at the local public library—and was absolutely fine. He hadn’t been injured, or robbed, or even _touched_ as far as he could tell. He hadn’t found anything new on his person, either. The library itself had seemed uncommonly clean when he’d woken up, considering that the mysterious blasts had knocked over a few shelves the night before. The only thing out of place had been a lingering residue of a type of magic that Cas didn’t recognize. 

_So, what was the point of the blasts?_ Cas wondered. Had it merely been a defensive measure, meant to render him unconscious?

His motel room was getting uncomfortably hot. Cas slipped off his trench coat, folding it over the back of one of the chairs that sat next to a small table.

The strange lights made the eighth “mystical” phenomenon that had appeared in the local town over the last few weeks, if he counted the lightning strike that had turned a statue in the city square from white to black. The phenomena were odd—portals that sent you walking back the way you had come, the town fountain changing from water to other various beverages, the type of which depended on the hour. Thankfully, no one had gotten hurt yet, and the locals had somehow managed to keep everything quiet for sake of not attracting attention—which was probably why Sam and Dean hadn’t jumped on it. The town was maybe thirty miles from the bunker, practically in its backyard. 

Cas lettered in “flying lights” on his list of phenomena that was taped up with the rest of his notes and maps on the wall. After a few moments consideration he crossed out ‘witches’ on a different list. 

Cas grimaced, shrugging off his suit jacket. A quick glance confirmed that the heater wasn’t running. Why was the room so hot?

Cas scanned over his notes again. Maybe fairies were behind it? Except he hadn’t sensed any portals to the fae world, so that wasn’t possible. Nothing seemed to _fit_ —every potential explanation seemed to have some sort of reason that negated it. He’d first thought was that it was a trickster, but everything was real and actually happened, not an illusion.

Cas’ cell phone rang. It took a moment to find the right pocket in his coat as it was draped over the chair, but when Cas pulled the device out the screen read _Dean Calling_.

Cas answered. “Hello?”

“Hey Cas! How’ve things been going?” Dean’s voice sounded slightly staticky thanks to the low-quality speaker in the phone, but that didn’t cover the ease in his voice. Cas smiled. _He must be having a good day._

“Everything’s been fine,” Cas replied. He pulled at his collar—somehow the temperature in the room had increased even further, making it overbearingly hot. “How are you?”

“I’m fan-freaking-tastic. Sam found a sort of treasure-hunt-puzzle-training thing left by the Men of Letters and it’s actually turning out to be _really_ fun—hang on, I’m going to put you on speaker.”

After a moment, Sam’s voice came through. “Hi Cas.”

“Anyway,” Dean continued, “part of the hunt actually involves Enochian, and we were wondering if you could translate it for us.”

“Of course.” 

“Okay, I’ve got it here,” Sam said, “just give me a moment.”

There was a slight rustling at their end. Cas pulled at his collar again, and realized that he was perspiring—quite a lot, actually. His shirt was sticking to his back and chest, the sleeves adhering to his arms. His hair was plastered to his forehead, too. It was uncomfortable, and Cas realized he had to be overheating—he was _unbearingly_ hot.

Cas set his phone to speaker and set it on the table. He fumbled with his buttons, trying to get his shirt off. He was only half-listening as Sam read off the Enochian and partially butchered the pronunciation in the process. 

“Roughly, it says ‘To open me, find what can never be found,’” Cas translated. He dragged his shirt off, exposing his bare skin to the open air. He was still overheating, but it was much more comfortable, especially across his back.

“That’s all?” Dean said in surprise. “It sounded like a lot more.”

Cas rubbed his neck, slick sweat coming away on his fingers. “It kind of, uh—” He swayed, the room tilting suddenly in his vision. He grabbed the edge of the table to balance himself. “—repeats itself, like in old English. I think it was translated from English to Enochian, and whoever wrote it wanted to make sure they got their point across.”

“Alright then,” Sam said. “Thanks Cas.”

“Yeah, thanks,” Dean added. “See you around.”

The phone clicked as the call ended.

Cas stared at the phone for a moment, then carefully let go of the table. 

_What is wrong with me?_ he thought. He was an _angel_ , and even with only stolen grace he shouldn’t be susceptible to whatever was happening to him.

It was _so hot_. Cas was covered in sweat—but his mouth was dry, which he thought was odd. And it hurt to swallow.

 _I should’ve told Dean._ But for some reason Cas hadn’t thought of it, maybe because he hadn’t quite realized himself that something was wrong.

The floor pitched and Cas fell, barely catching himself on the edge of the table. He was on his knees, his arms trembling as he gripped the table in order to stay upright. The ground was still swaying, twisting underneath him and he squeezed his eyes shut, silently begging for it to stop.

Two sharp pains plunged into his back, side-by-side between Cas’ shoulder blades. He cried out, losing hold on the table and crumpling to the ground. The world was spinning, and somehow it had gotten even _hotter_. Cas groaned. Pain flared through his back, blazing and sharp, and the world went black.

*****

Cas woke slowly. His head felt like lead, as if it had been glued to the ground. The feeling wasn’t helped by the tinny ringing that was pounding nails of pain between his eyes.

After what felt like hours, the ringing—Cas’ cell phone, he dimly realized—finally shut up. Cas didn’t move, wanting to recede back into the nothingness of unconsciousness, but it didn't work. He was awake. He pried open his eyes and squinted against the late afternoon sunlight that slanted across the room.

 _Late afternoon_ —how long had he been out?

He pushed himself up and almost immediately hit something on a table leg. He recoiled, the shock wave of pain running through him, then yelped in surprise at the mass of black directly behind him. He jerked away but it followed, and it was only after his hand landed on something that started to sting— _separately_ from his hand—did he freeze. 

Cautiously he looked over his shoulder—and forgot how to breathe.

 _Wings_. 

Not his invisible, almost metaphorical angel wings but _physical_ wings—big and black and shining. If he ignored the coloring, they looked almost identical to how humans imagined angels’ wings to look, except instead of fluffy, they were sleek and strong.

Castiel winced. And sore.

He lifted his hand, freeing the edge of his wing. A few of the feathers were rumpled but otherwise it seemed fine. 

Carefully, Cas maneuvered into a sitting position, his wings spread behind him. They were _huge_ , and they felt odd. It was as if another set of limbs spread from his back, like arms but different. Cas let out a half-laugh as he carefully extended one of his wings all of the way—it was nearly fifteen feet long. The large feathers at the end brushed the wall, and Cas could sort of _feel_ it—the same odd way that fingernails could feel things without nerves, by transferring the sensation to the skin underneath. He pulled the wing in, half-folding it to match his other wing. He could _feel_ his wings—they were part of his body. They ached a bit, and complained some when he moved them, but they were _his_.

 _But—how had this happened?_ It wasn’t normal, and it definitely wasn’t _natural_ —for an angel or a human! Worry spiked through Cas’ chest as his mind raced through the possibilities—not many of which were good.

Unconsciously, he opened both wings as far as they could go, flaring them. Cas didn’t notice that he’d done so until he tried to turn and smacked a wing into the wall. 

“What in the—” He cursed, pulling his wings in. But once he had, it didn’t feel right, so he opened his wings again, letting them flare out.

 _But why would—oh._ Cas let out a shaky laugh as the puzzle pieces clicked together. _Reflex_. He was afraid—and his natural response was to flare his wings. Body language was usually a learned trait, but somehow his wings reacted to his emotions and thoughts naturally, without him even thinking about it.

He wasn’t sure how he felt about that.

Mentally, Cas stepped back. He needed to figure out _how_ this had happened and why—and if it could be undone. Castiel felt a pang of sadness at that thought, but he knew that it wasn’t _right_ —and even if he could keep them, they’d get in the way. This was most likely a curse, and he didn’t want to be put under anyone’s control again. 

Cas tried to think of a plan, but he found himself at a loss. _I need help._ He pulled his wings in just enough so that they wouldn’t hit things as he moved to the table, picking up his phone.

Cas clicked the button and his phone lit up, displaying two messages:

_31 Missed Calls from Dean_

_14 Missed Calls from Sam_

Cas stared at the screen in confusion. At most he’d been out for twelve hours, so why were there so many calls? 

His phone started ringing and the screen changed: _Dean Calling_.

Cas tapped the answer button. “Hello?”

“ _Cas!_ ” Dean exclaimed, sounding startled.

Cas blinked. “Yes?”

“What— _where have you been?_ ” he demanded.

“Where have I—Dean, we spoke just this morning.”

There was silence, then, “Cas, the last time I spoke to you was _two weeks_ ago. When Sam and I were doing the treasure hunt.”

Cas lowered the phone, his mind racing. He’d been unconscious for _two weeks???_

Finally he put the phone back to his ear. “Two weeks?” he echoed.

“Yeah, Cas—wait, you didn’t know? What happened? Are you okay?” Concern laced Dean’s voice.

“No,” Cas said softly. His wings were flared again, and they were starting to ache from holding the position for so long. Carefully he folded them in, pressing them against his back. “I’m not okay.” 

“Is it an angel thing? Your grace?” Dean asked.

“No, it’s not—” Cas took a shaky breath. “My grace is fine, but something happened to me. Something I’ve never seen—or even _heard_ of—before. It _shouldn’t_ be possible.”

“Hang on, I’m gonna come get you—”

“No,” Cas cut him off. “I’m not far from the bunker. I can get to you myself.”

“Are you sure?” Dean said, sounding worried.

“I’m sure.” Cas hung up. For a long moment he just stood there, cell phone in hand, bare-chested with his wings folded against his back. The feathers felt good against his skin, if different. His wings seemed to mold against the curves in his back, fitting flush against his skin. Shaped and perfect. Where the feathers pressed against his belt felt a little odd, but past that his wings pulled away naturally, giving space for his legs to move. The tips of his wings ended just below his knees, falling in line with his legs.

Cas glanced over his shoulder. If he’d been looking straight-on from the front, he’d only have been able to see maybe half an inch of wings curving above his shoulders, tucking close against his neck. Somehow, everything else had managed to fold in tightly enough that from the front, they disappeared. 

People wouldn’t look at him from just the front, though. Cas glanced at his shirt, which was lying in a heap on the floor. He doubted it was large enough to fit now, so he folded it and placed it in his bag instead. After a moment’s consideration he packed his suit jacket away too, settling for just the trench coat.

It felt odd wearing the coat against bare skin, but that sensation was quickly forgotten as the material pressed against Cas’ wings. Pinpricks ran through them, making him shiver. 

Cas buttoned his coat completely closed for the first time. He slipped into the bathroom and examined himself as best he could in the tiny mirror. The coat covered him well—only the tips of the lowest feathers peeked out from the bottom, barely noticeable if you weren’t looking for them.

Cas gathered the rest off stuff, and discovered in the process that his coat, while effective in concealing his wings, was also uncomfortably restrictive. He could barely shift his wings under the tight material. When his wings moved reflexively in relation to what he was doing—the same way his arms swing when he walked—or when they reacted to his emotions, their sudden inability to move freely felt almost suffocating as they pressed against the fabric.

His stuff gathered, Cas sighed. If they couldn’t figure out how to reverse this—or if it couldn’t be reversed—he was going to have to get used to suffocating.

**Author's Note:**

> Later chapters will include Destiel fluff. 
> 
> :)


End file.
